


just skin

by ben_jaded



Series: Anywhere, Anytime [3]
Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Grinding, Lapdance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 13:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16450643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ben_jaded/pseuds/ben_jaded
Summary: Erik gives T'Challa a lap dance.





	just skin

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write this fic since April, yet here we are, 3 days till November and I'm just now finally getting around to finishing this. 
> 
> Thank you [cutthroatfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutthroatfics/pseuds/cutthroatfics) for looking over this for me. 
> 
> now with fan art by the lovely [amikoroyaiart](https://amikoroyaiart.tumblr.com/).

The sun is setting by the time T'Challa makes it back to the Palace. He has always considered his apartment a calm oasis amidst the hustle and bustle — a place he can retreat to and renew his energy. After a long day, all T'Challa wants is to spend a quiet evening in, curled up in bed with N’Jadaka. 

He leaves his accompanying Dora Milaje at the entrance of his suite and makes his way inside. In the foyer, T'Challa takes off his sandals. Through the quiet stillness of the apartment, he seeks out the familiar beat of N’Jadaka’s heart, all the tension bleeding out of him once he finds it, his own slowing to match the familiar rhythm. Barefooted, he leisurely walks down the hallway toward their bedroom, tracking lights embedded in the walls turning on, guiding his steps. Inside their bedroom, he stops long enough to change into more comfortable clothing, then goes to find him.

He follows that familiar thrum of another heart to find N’Jadaka in the den. It’s bathed a fiery red-orange from the setting sun spilling through the floor to ceiling windows, flooding the room with light. A warm breeze wafts into the room from an open door leading out into the terrace. Through the terrace’s steel-framed glass doors, the flaming sunset colors the skyline.

N’Jadaka lies stretched out on their sectional sofa, a book in hand, his skin awash in the muted light of the room. He glances up at the sound of the door sliding shut behind T'Challa.

“Hi babe,” he greets T'Challa, a slight smile dimpling his cheek. Sitting up, N’Jadaka closes the book and places it on the small table next to the sofa.

T'Challa walks over to N’Jadaka, bends down and brushes his lips with a gentle kiss. “How was your day?” he asks as he slides into the empty space beside him on the sofa. His gaze drifts over N'Jadaka in a leisurely appraisal. A feeling of calmness perfuses him as he takes in N’Jadaka's well-loved features illuminated with fading light from the setting sun: from the jet black of his eyebrows, round cheekbones, full lips, and a jawline framed by a well-groomed beard. 

N’Jadaka moves closer, his body pressed lightly against T’Challa’s side. “Better now that you’re here,” N’Jadaka says, his grin widens, creasing his cheeks with deep dimples. “You’re late tonight.” 

N’Jadaka’s touch is warm, his fingers dancing in a feather-light caress across the line of T'Challa’s jaw. It sends fiery ripples spiraling down T’Challa’s spine, his skin coming alive beneath his touch. 

T'Challa breathes in deep. There is a warmth to N'Jadaka's skin, the slightest misting of perspiration. A spice to the blood underneath and in his sinews. It's the faint smell of cinnamon and cloves, a hint of the most delicate African violet, a top note of belladonna just on the side of soothing instead of deadly. N'Jadaka. A kick of instinct firing in his brain, this scent is N'Jadaka's. A smell that is uniquely his. It’s hard to resist the urge to press his nose into N’Jadaka’s throat. “It's been a rough day,” he replies as N’Jadaka continues to study him. 

Bast, N’Jadaka is a beautiful man, so beautiful T’Challa wants him always.

T’Challa tilts his head, getting lost in the glide of N’Jadaka’s hand on his skin as the tips of his fingers skim up to his ear and then down T'Challa’s throat where he pauses to feel T'Challa’s increasing pulse. T'Challa’s eyes gaze deeply into N'Jadaka's as he catches his hand and presses a kiss to his palm.

“Let me make your day better,” N’Jadaka says, his voice, a low, sultry rasp that drags along T'Challa’s senses, sending blood surging through his veins.

T’Challa leans back against the sofa cushions. The intensity and hunger in N’Jadaka’s gaze mesmerizing. “What do you have in mind?” he asks in a low, gruff voice.

N’Jadaka leans closer, trails kisses to the tender spot beneath his ear, making T'Challa shiver when he nips the delicate skin. His mouth brushes T'Challa’s ear, his breath warm against his skin, and whispers, “If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?”

N’Jadaka’s mouth hovers a few inches from his. Their mouths crashed together — hard — bruising and with blistering heat as they both fought to deepen it. N’Jadaka moans against his mouth, kisses T'Challa back just as fiercely. He moves to straddle T’Challa's lap, bracing his arms on the back of the sofa on either side of T’Challa's head, his lips parting so T'Challa’s greedy tongue can sweep into his mouth. T'Challa kisses him passionately, ravishing his mouth with his lips, his tongue and his teeth. 

“Fuck,” N’Jadaka groans in between the sloppy kisses. 

“I love your mouth,” T’Challa says, dragging hot wet open-mouthed kisses along N’Jadaka’s jaw to his ear, nipping the skin as he goes. “I could spend an entire day kissing you.”

T’Challa’s hands slide over the contours of his body. He drags him closer and pushes the edge of N’Jadaka’s shirt up. His palms glide underneath, his fingers tracing along his waist, up the sides of his body, and around to knead the firm globes of his ass. N’Jadaka moans, hips thrusting forward in encouragement as T’Challa squeezes, presses his body flush against his growing erection. 

“Ease up babe,” N’Jadaka murmurs, trapping T'Challa’s wandering hands, holding them firmly against his hips. “We’re just getting started.” 

Beneath his heated gaze, N’Jadaka licks his lips as if savoring the lingering taste of him.

Bast, his mouth was made for kissing — for him. Words can’t express how much he loves the taste of N’Jadaka’s mouth.

“You taste so good,” T’Challa whispers against his lips, laying a smattering of kisses across his jaw, a thumb skimming along the unmarked skin at N’Jadaka’s hip. “So damned sweet. I want to taste all of you.”

“Do you feel that, baby?” N’Jadaka asks, grabbing T’Challa's hand and pressing it to the erection tenting the front of his sweatpants. T’Challa grips him firmly, squeezing tight, feeling the warmth of him through the thin fabric. “You make me so hard, baby.”

N’Jadaka moans loudly as T’Challa strokes him, the sound feeding the lust roaring in his veins. “I can’t wait to be inside you.”

“I know, babe.” He kissed the corner of T’Challa’s mouth, “You feel so good when you’re deep inside me, your cock stretching me out, filling me with your cum.”

T’Challa nuzzles into his throat, lazily dragging his hands up N’Jadaka’s thick thighs. N’Jadaka tilts his head back as T’Challa’s mouth leaves his own, trailing kisses down the column of his neck, “You drive me crazy, N’Jadaka.” T’Challa says before taking his lips in a long lingering kiss, his mouth feasting hungrily on his.

Exhaling shakily once their lips parted, T’Challa rests his forehead against N’Jadaka. 

“C’mon, T’Challa.” N’Jadaka pants, his eyes boring into T’Challa, devouring him with his need. “Let me make you feel good. I wanna take care of you tonight.”

His breathing ragged, his body fiercely aroused, T’Challa burns with the need to lose himself in the warmth of N’Jadaka’s body.

T’Challa squeezes his thighs, nips at N’Jadaka’s lower lip, and asks, “What do you want me to do?”

He chuckles softly, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his full mouth as he gets off T’Challa’s lap. “Sit back and relax. I plan to do all the work.”

N’Jadaka’s words do nothing to combat the flare of desire that arcs through his veins like lightning. 

Leaning back onto the sofa, he lazily lets his eyes roam over N’Jadaka. His sleeveless muscle shirt does nothing to hide his thick muscular arms. A pair of loose-fitting sweatpants accentuated his muscled thighs.

N’Jadaka returns his stare with one of his own, his fiery gaze a slow glide along T’Challa’s body, heavy-lidded, his mouth parted in invitation. N’Jadaka presses on one of the beads on his kimoyo bracelet and music pours out of the speakers mounted on the walls, the room filling with ambient light. T’Challa doesn’t recognize the artist, but the song has a slow upbeat rhythm.

T’Challa’s brows furrow at the realization that N’Jadaka is going to dance for him. It sends a thrill of anticipation through him.

The bass kicks in and N’Jadaka begins to move to the music, his hips swaying to the beat.

T’Challa can’t tear his gaze away, can do nothing else but stare as N’Jadaka moves his body rhythmically to the beat, his movements slow and sensual. Legs spread apart, he bends his knees and rolls his hips, gyrating in a slow circle. The music seems to flow through him as he alternates between drawing wide circles with his hips and body rolling to the rhythm of the music. T’Challa has seen him dance before, but never like this. 

Their gazes hold as N’Jadaka sweeps his tongue slowly over his bottom lip. He lifts the shirt, exposing his rolling abdomen. “You enjoyin’ the show, baby?” He asks, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

T’Challa sits up straighter, eyes following N’Jadaka’s hands raptly as fire races through him, drying his mouth and igniting need in his stomach. He wants to run his hands over the ridges of muscle along N’Jadaka’s abdomen, the hard planes of his chest and broad shoulders, all the way down N’Jadaka’s scarred back and linger on his bare skin. 

All T’Challa can do is nod. 

N’Jadaka smirks, his golden canines flashing as he slowly runs his hands over his clothed chest, teasing the shirt up over his stomach. He twists his thumb in the hem of his shirt and then lets it fall down again. “Want me to take this off?” 

T’Challa bites back a groan, desperate with the need to reach out and touch him.

"Then say it,” N’Jadaka replies, his hips moving in lazy circles. “Tell me what you want."

T’Challa’s breath quickens, his hunger is all-consuming. "I want to slowly take off your shirt, worship every inch of you.” 

“Yeah baby,” N’Jadaka moans, “want that too.” He pulls off the shirt, exposing the hard, muscled line of his chest and abdomen. He continues to move to the music, one hand sliding down his body until he reaches the waistband of his sweatpants. He runs his fingers along the unmarked skin, thumbs trailing over the jut of his hipbones. He drags it down as his other hand slides up his body, his hips ticking to the beat of the song.

N’Jadaka shifts down to the floor, one knee after another, his body melting into the rhythm. He sweeps down to the floor, thrusting his pelvis in slow, continuous grinds. T’Challa admires the rippling muscles on his back, the bulging veins in his arms as N’Jadaka alternates to doing it one handed.

N’Jadaka shifts back to his knees, mouth pulled into a mischievous grin. In one fluid motion, he flips to his feet, then does a knee slide. The slide lands him right in front of T’Challa. He spreads T’Challa’s legs open, fitting himself between his knees before crawling up T’Challa’s body. His hands slide up T’Challa’s chest, burning a trail T’Challa could feel right down to his toes.

N’Jadaka’s hands rest on T’Challa’s shoulders, then gently presses T’Challa back into the sofa. He looms over T’Challa, his body swaying softly as he moves to the music.

T’Challa’s chest heaves at the feel of N’Jadaka’s body against his. His chest is inches from T’Challa’s face. His tempting scent flooding T’Challa’s senses, his warm touch sending fiery ripples spiraling down his arms.

T’Challa’s hands clench at his sides as he battles the impulse to dip his head, to catch one nipple between his teeth and flick the tip with his tongue. His instinct is to touch, but he knows the rules of a lap dance, no touching until the dancer says it’s okay. N’Jadaka has yet to give him permission to touch. He keeps still instead, let’s N’Jadaka test his self-control as he works T’Challa’s desire for him to a fever pitch.

N’Jadaka leans in close, one knee resting next to T’Challa’s hip. He noses along T’Challa’s jaw, his breath blazing a hot trail as his lips brush against T’Challa’s skin. 

T’Challa feels N’Jadaka’s lips spread into a smirk before his lips trail kisses down the column of T’Challa’s throat, eliciting tiny tingles. His lips drag down to the base of T’Challa’s throat, there he nips at T’Challa’s racing pulse. 

N’Jadaka leans back and lays his palm in the middle of T’Challa’s chest. 

His breath hitches at N’Jadaka’s touch. Exhaling shakily, T’Challa asks, “May I touch you?”

N’Jadaka’s grin widens. “Hands to yourself,” he replies, swinging one leg over T’Challa’s to straddle his thigh. 

T’Challa bites back a groan, his fingers digging into his palms.

N’Jadaka gyrates his hips to the rhythm of the song, the heat of his cock moving inches from T’Challa’s face.

T’Challa closes his eyes and breathes in deep. He wants to taste him, to lick and suck, to trail nibbling kisses down his torso to the top of his sweatpants. He wants to grab hold of N’Jadaka’s hips, to hold him in place as he mouths at N’Jadaka’s cock through the thin layer of fabric, stretched tautly across his length. 

As if to test him, N’Jadaka grinds down hard against his thigh, sinuously rocking his hips back and forth, his hand curling around T’Challa’s nape. He leans forward, runs his tongue up the edge of T’Challa ear and moans shamelessly, loud and filthy right against it. “You like that, baby?”

T’Challa replies, “I think you enjoy teasing me.”

“That,” N’Jadaka whispers softly, sliding sensuously against T’Challa. “I definitely do.“

The music shifts into a new song, one more sultry than the last. 

N’Jadaka leans back, grins wickedly as he straddles T’Challa’s thighs, knees digging into the soft cushions on either side of T’Challa's hips. His grip on T’Challa’s nape tightens as he hovers above T’Challa’s lap. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his hips moving in languid circles as he keeps pace with the beat of the music.

“How you feeling, babe?” he asks as his ass brushes slightly against T’Challa’s throbbing cock. 

His face is inches from T’Challa’s, so close his warm breath caresses his skin.

“I’m feeling much better.”

His cock twitches as N’Jadaka adds a little more pressure.

“Guess I’ll have to try harder then.”

N’Jadaka grins slyly. He grinds his hips against T’Challa’s pelvis, pressing tighter over the ridge of his erection.

“Fuck,” T’Challa groans, the heat of his body pressing on his swollen length almost more than he could stand. He wants N’Jadaka flush against him, wants to guide him into moving harder. Faster. But as much as he wants to take control and show N’Jadaka just how much better he's feeling, this, T'Challa can do: he can be patient. There's no need to rush. They have all night.

“You wanna touch me, baby?” N’Jadaka asks, rolling his hips forward, the hard length of his cock a hot brand against T’Challa’s stomach.

“Yes,” T’Challa hisses, his head falling back. His skin prickles with heat, the delicious friction N’Jadaka’s movements generated, hitting in all the right places.

“Not yet,” N’Jadaka whispers against his ear as he raises his hips and lowers them, rocking back and forth in T’Challa’s lap. “Can you handle that?”

T’Challa’s pulse kicks up a notch; he nods once again.

N’Jadaka holds onto one of T’Challa’s shoulders and leans back, ass firmly pressed against T’Challa’s swollen length. He undulates his hips in slow, fluid circles as he watches T’Challa.

T’Challa holds his gaze, completely mesmerized. N’Jadaka’s eyes are dark and intense, his breathing labored, a light sheen of sweat glistens off his sculpted body. It’s all he can do to keep still and not touch as his throbbing erection jerks each time N’Jadaka grinds against him. N’Jadaka leans back up, flexing his stomach as he does so, pressing against T’Challa’s from chest to hips. He wraps both arms around T’Challa’s neck, tilts his face down to rest his forehead against T’Challa’s.

“N’Jadaka,” T’Challa moans hoarsely. 

N’Jadaka hums and continues to ride T’Challa’s lap, his movements slow and unhurried as he sets out to destroy T’Challa’s self-control. T’Challa clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms. Their noses gently nudge against each other and N’Jadaka moans breathily against his lips. The sound goes straight to his cock and his self-restraint — what little is left of it — ebbs a little faster. It takes everything in him to not breach the space separating them and claim his mouth in a kiss, to not let his hips rise and match the distinct rhythm of his undulating hips.

“Are you trying to make me come?”

A sultry chuckle escapes N’Jadaka, causing his chest to reverberate against T’Challa. He rakes his blunt nails into T’Challa’s nape and slowly grinds against him.

He doesn’t answer; instead, N’Jadaka turns around and sits on his lap with his back to T’Challa, his ass firmly in T’Challa’s lap. He plants his hands on T’Challa’s knees, his nails biting deep as he rolls his hips and grinds down hard.

It’s not long before he moves a hand from where it’s resting on T’Challa’s knee to loop around his neck instead. He arches his back and tips back, burying his face against T’Challa neck. “Could you,” he asks as he grinds rhythmically against T’Challa’s lap, “come like this?”

T’Challa’s grip on his self-control frays as he tries not to give in and grab N’Jadaka’s hips. 

“I could come just by watching you look at me.”

“Good.”

N’Jadaka slides off his lap and T’Challa growls low in his throat.

N’Jadaka looks over his shoulder at T’Challa, a smirk spreading across his face as he slowly lowers his sweatpants to show off his shapely ass. He shakes then smacks his ass, pulling up his sweatpants with a wink. 

Bast. T’Challa’s desperate with the desire to reach out and touch him.

Turning to face T’Challa, N’Jadaka straddles him once again and slowly sinks down on his lap, knees spread wider as he boxes T’Challa in. He takes hold of T’Challa hand and flattens it against his chest, guiding T’Challa’s calloused palm across the heated skin of his scarred chest, his hips making small, circular movements.

T’Challa takes this as permission to finally touch. He slides his hands along the curve of N’Jadaka’s pectorals, tracing the ripple of muscles down his torso, then the slick arch of his back, right down to the taut curves of his ass.

T’Challa gets lost in the smoothness of his warm supple skin, the feel of hard muscles rippling beneath his hands. He slips his hands beneath the waistband of N’Jadaka’s sweatpants, smoothing over his ass and squeezing hard.

N’Jadaka’s fingers dig in hard into T’Challa’s shoulders as grinds down hard against the rampant swell of his erection. “Kiss me," he whispers against T’Challa’s lips, “Kiss me, T’Challa. I need you right now.” 

T’Challa’s resistance shatters into flaming shards, and he does as commanded.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Skin by Rihanna. I was listening to a lot of soca while working on this, but the songs Erik dances to are: Body Party by Ciara and Would you mind by Janet Jackson. 
> 
> If the ending seems abrupt, it's cuz I cut 3k of smut once I realize I promised Quix there would be no smut in this fic. 
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this and the 2 other versions of it I currently have in draft. I might post stripper!Erik/sugar daddy!T'Challa fic one day. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading.


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